Cold Night's Travels
by Anne Davies
Summary: During a local ski resort’s Winter Triathlon, “sabotage to win” seems to be the rule of at least some of the contestants. Title subject to change. Rating just in case. Nancy Drew & George Fayne guest star.
1. Jemima Lawrents

Chapter 1

Jemima Lawrents

A/N: This is my first fic that's not in imitation of Ellery Queen. I _think _I've been working on this chapter since maybe the winter of 2004/05 during the January thaw, but I'm not sure—I found it yesterday when I was helping Mum clean house. Oh, yeah, might turn out to be a short ficlet at the rate it's going. Let me know how you like it!

* * *

"Wow, this place is so gorgeous!" Nancy Drew exclaimed.

"Tell me about it," her good friend, George Fayne, said, getting out of their car. "And this is just a place we chose to stop at to get directions to the Moorland Ski Resort!"

Two dogs, one a black Siberian Husky and the other an Australian Shepherd who looked to be about 14 or 15 and walked with what definitely seemed to be arthritis ("Poor guy," Nancy remarked), came around the corner of a barn to greet the girls. The Husky was wagging its tail like crazy and Nancy judged it was probably a year old.

"Orson, Meg!" a woman's voice yelled angrily. A young girl came around the barn, taking the same path as Orson and Meg had. The girl, who was followed by a honey-coloured bantam chicken, stopped when she saw Nancy and George. The chicken took the opportunity to run ahead; the girl let out a short burst of air in exasperation and hurried after her, saying in the same voice they'd heard earlier, "Honey, get back here!"

Nancy and George watched in amusement as the girl scurried after the chicken and finally, grabbing her by the tail feathers, cuddled it in her arms so the wings were pinned down.

"Sorry about that," the girl said, breathing easily as she approached Nancy and George. "Honey here, she likes to escape. But I don't like letting the chickens out when the fields are all flooded like this. Can I help you with anything?"

George nodded. "You know the way to the Moorland Ski Resort, by any chance?"

The girl shook her head. "Sorry, no. My folks took me there once when I was eight or nine, before they died. I only remember standing at the ski rental in the main building and looking out at the ski slopes." She gave a wry smile; Honey squawked and beat her wings furiously, but the girl pinned them back down. "Why do you ask?"

"We're competitors in the Winter Triathlon there," Nancy explained.

"Oh, you're competing there, too?" the girl asked excitedly. "So'm I. My name's Jemima Lawrents, by the way."

"I'm Nancy Drew," Nancy said; "and this is my friend, George Fayne."

There was a moment of awkward silence. Jemima looked at the sun, which was nearing its zenith. "What time does the competition start?" she asked.

"One-fifteen," George told her.

"And it's twelve-thirty now!" Jemima said in a panicked voice, turning back toward the barn. "Orson! Meg!" The Siberian Husky bounded across the driveway to Jemima, and the Aussie lumbered behind. "Sorry I wasn't much help!" Jemima called back. "See you there!"

As Nancy drove back up the long driveway to the deserted country road, George remarked, "Odd sort of competitor, isn't she?"

Nancy nodded, and spotted a lime green Volkswagen in a turnabout off to one side of the driveway. "Looks like Jemima Lawrents wasn't kidding us," she said, pointing out the Volkswagen to George. She could see skis leaning against the back left window.

"Where's her canoe?" George said as they made a right turn that led immediately to a bridge.

"That's Hill River right there," Nancy said, motioning with her head to the river that ran under the bridge. "Wilson Creek, I think, is back there, toward Miller's Point."

"Jem wouldn't even have to drive to the starting point, like we would. All she'd have to do is canoe to it," George said sourly. "And I could have sworn she was only about ten or eleven, but she can't be that, because the rules say you have to be seventeen or older, right?"

Nancy nodded vaguely; she was too distracted at the moment to reply as icy water was creating rapids across the roadway.

* * *

"The website said that Hill River is ten to fifteen feet at the best of times!" Joe Hardy complained as his brother, Frank, slowed the van down to navigate through the water and ice covering the road. "What do you reckon it is now, thirty feet?"

Frank swerved to the right as another car passed them going the opposite direction. "I don't know. Do you have any idea at all as to where we are?" he asked exasperatedly. "I don't think I've ever been this way before."

Joe shrugged. "We went through Miller's Point, I think it was, a few miles back. Hey, you just passed a driveway back there; let's stop and ask directions. These maps we got off the Web aren't the greatest."

Frank carefully executed a 3-point turn after he got the van out of the water that was across the road, then went back to the driveway and turned into it.

Halfway down was a lime green Volkswagen. A young girl, probably no more than eleven at the most, was brushing snow off the windshield. Frank stopped the van and Joe rolled down his window.

"Excuse me, you know where the Moorland Ski Resort is?" Joe called.

The girl paused. "Are you competitors, too?"

Frank nodded. "We got lost," he admitted sheepishly.

"That seems to be the problem of the day, doesn't it?" the girl grinned. "I'm Jemima Lawrents, by the way, and speaking of ways, you're trespassing on private property."

"Your folks own all this?" Joe asked.

"Used to. All except the trailer, but I'm trying to buy that, too, except the guy doesn't seem to want to sell." She finished brushing off the car, and Joe could see cross-country skis in the back. "Who are you guys, anyway?"

"I'm Joe Hardy and he's Frank."

"Well, Mr. Hardy, see you at the finish line," Jemima said briskly. "And watch out for the high water here. It likes to tip over canoes if there're branches in the way."

* * *

"Whew! Finally made it!" Frank said as he and Joe got out of their van at the Moorland Ski Resort. Behind them, Jemima Lawrents was pulling into a space.

The Ski Resort was closed to the general public for the first part of the Triathlon, which involved skiing, snowshoeing, and canoeing. Frank and Joe struggled through new snow up to their knees ("You need snowshoes just to get to the lodge!" Joe complained) to the lodge where the competitors were to gather for the first leg of the race: Skiing cross-country to Moorland.

As Frank and Joe checked in, Jemima Lawrents hurried past them to an assistant's desk. "Sorry I'm late," she apologised breathlessly. "Had last minute stuff I needed to get done. Like people needing directions." (She glared at Frank and Joe.)

"Well, you're on time," said the assistant, whose nameplate read Lisa. "The last of the competitors are here, I thing, so we should be starting any moment. Jemima nodded and rushed off.

"Okay, can I have your attention please?" a woman asked a few minutes later. She was standing on a makeshift stage of an old plywood platform and speaking through a megaphone. "I'm Lorna Johnson. The Winter Triathlon will begin in a few moments, but first let me explain a few things to you.

"Owing to a major flood in the area, the canoeing will be changed from Hill River over to Wilson Creek, at the point where the creek currently begins. Direction will be given to you upon your completion of the snowshoeing portion of the event.

"If you do not have cross-country skies, please see our ski manager, Lisa. This portion of the race will be three miles cross-country to Miller's Point; you will then enter immediately into the snowshoeing portion of the race and come back to Moorland along a different route. All racers must be back before…let's say midnight tonight.

"Tomorrow we will have the canoeing on Wilson Creek. This will run to the other side of Bayport—that's seven miles by road, folks.

"Any questions?...Okay, I believe we are ready to roll. The ski route is marked with red triangles; the snowshoe route is marked with yellow triangles. The race begins at the tope of the slope you see out this window." Ms. Johnson motioned to the window behind her. "Oh, one other thing," she said. "We assumed that the majority of you know how to get uphill on cross-country skies. Therefore, at one-thirty, you will be left to your own devices. This means that at one-thirty, when the race starts unofficially, you will not have the use of ski lifts, tow ropes, or anything else to aide you except your skis and your brains. And no hugging the tree line!" She stepped down off the makeshift stage and disappeared into the crowd of competitors.

"Frank and Joe Hardy!" exclaimed a familiar voice next to them.

"Nancy, George! You're competing too, right?" Frank asked.

Nancy nodded. "But we got lost on the way here and had to ask directions. The girl was a little on the weird side—Jemima Lawrents, her name was. She said she didn't know the way, but I think she was lying."

"We met her through the same circumstances as you guys did," Joe said dryly. "C'mon, let's go get our stuff."

* * *

When Frank and Joe arrived at the bottom of the hill, Jemima Lawrents had already strapped on her skis and was eying it. "Piece of cake," she muttered, smiling. "I suppose you've competed in this sort of thing before, too, right?" she asked, directing this last comment toward Frank and Joe.

Joe was leaning on his ski poles for support as he fastened his skis; beside him, Frank was struggling with a particularly stubborn binding. Neither could quite read the expression on Jem's face—was it excitement, or something else?

"Hey, Joe, can you help me with this binding?" Frank asked. Joe bent down and fastened the stubborn binding with about as much difficulty as Frank had had.

"If you'd waited, your friends could have helped you," Jemima said.

"What friends?" Frank asked, taking up his poles.

"The strawberry blonde one you seem so fond of," Jemima replied, and started off.

"Oh, she means Nancy," Joe said as Nancy and George skied over to them. He started off sideways up the slope. "You coming, Frank?" he called back. Jemima, to his surprise, was already well on her way up the hill, and more contestants were starting up as well.

"You bet," Frank said, starting after Joe. "I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

* * *

Following Jemima's lead wasn't easy. It became especially difficult for Frank when a loud snap startled him and for support he accidentally put his ski on a patch of ice Joe had just told him to avoid. After that, all Frank could see was a blur of snow and clouds as he tumbled down the steep slope. 


	2. Stalkers and Suspicions

Chapter 2

Suspicions and Stalkers

Frank landed hard on his stomach, and he lay still a few moments as he tried to catch his breath. He thought he'd heard another snap on his way down, but that seemed to have been a result of something other than himself breaking, thankfully.

"Frank! Are you okay?" Joe asked, skidding to a stop beside him.

He rolled over slowly, wincing as he did so, and stood up with Joe's help. "One thing's certain," he said, eying the binding still on his ski boot. About ten feet above them, his detached ski stuck straight up out of the snow. "I need new skis."

* * *

After finally arriving at the top of the hill upon getting a new pair of skis from Lorna Johnson ("You're lucky," she remarked. "Three years ago a girl broke her nose landing on her ski pole."), Frank was ready to call it quits, mostly because his body was starting to complain about his tumble down the hill. But they still had six miles to go before they could truly quit for the night. 

He pushed up his coat sleeve to look at his watch. 2:15. Not bad, considering. But the sun set at 4:30 this time of year, and they had about 20 minutes or so of daylight after sunset. He figured it took him and Joe roughly 20 minutes to ski a mile and a half, so they'd get to Miller's Point about 3:00, if they were lucky. He didn't know how long it would take to snowshoe back, but it would most likely be about two times slower than skiing. So that would mean it'd be 6:00 at the earliest by the time they finally got back to Moorland.

"You're sure you're okay, Frank?" Joe asked, noticing he was moving a bit gingerly.

"Nothing worse than a few bruises," Frank replied as one of the assistants checked them in and gave them the go ahead. _Nothing worse than on any of our cases_, he amended silently.

* * *

About that same time, Nancy and George were in the middle of the pack. Ahead they could hear whoops and laughter as the leaders started to go down what seemed to be a rather steep hill. 

"You want to watch this hill," Jemima Lawrents said somewhat breathlessly as she came up behind them. "There's a bridge at the bottom that crosses a creek bed at a ninety-degree angle from the trail."

"Thanks for the warning," George said. She and Nancy followed Jemima to the top of the hill and stopped; Jemima immediately started down and executed the turn quite easily.

"Well, she would be familiar with this route," Nancy said when George commented on Jemima's warning. "She lives here."

"Yeah, but she said she didn't know the way to the resort, either," George pointed out; "_And_ she seems to be familiar with Lorna Johnson. She was also late getting there. I mean, we arrived right after Frank and Joe, _and_ we had to leave our equipment unattended for a few minutes. So logically, she's the number one suspect at the moment for sabotaging Frank's ski bindings."

"I'll admit she does seem a bit on the peculiar side," Nancy started, choosing her words carefully. "But Frank's skis _were_ old. And the slope _was_ icy."

"Still…" George trailed off, shook her head. "I'm being paranoid. It's been ages since you've had a case." Nancy glared at her. "Okay, since we had a case. Well, I'm not going to waste any more time on this. See you at the bottom." George started down, and like so many before her, missed the turn at the bottom. Nancy did the same thing.

* * *

The woods were rather quiet as Frank and Joe brought up the rear. The contestants ahead of them soon disappeared as Frank moved rather slowly, and most of those who'd been behind them had already passed. He knew Joe was only lagging because of him. 

"Go on ahead, Joe," he ordered. His nose and throat were stinging from the cold air.

"Not on your life, bro," Joe replied, keeping pace. "You probably hurt something when you fell that's not announcing itself yet. Bedsides, remember Survival Rule Number One?"

"Always stay together out in the woods," Frank recited dully. "Joe, I'm _fine_. Now will you get a move on?"

"Uh-uh. I'm staying right here."

"Fine."

The last of the racers passed them.

Frank definitely couldn't breathe now. "Let's stop a moment," he suggested.

Joe watched with concerned eyes as Frank dug out a small water bottle and took a long drink. "You want some?"

Joe shook his head. "I'm fine. And there's always snow. What time is it?"

"2:45."

"I wonder how far we've gone."

"Only one way to find out, bro." Joe started off; Frank screwed the lid back on his water bottle, jammed it in his coat pocket, and followed.

* * *

They passed the first pack of snowshoers about 3:30. "Hey, how much further?" Joe asked the first one. 

"Hundred yards," the man said. "They kept us so you two could catch up some."

"Thanks," Joe called. Sure enough, the second check-in point soon came into view. "Let's rest a bit," he suggested, eyeing Frank as his brother leaned briefly on his ski poles, breathing heavily.

Frank shook his head. "Can't." He moved off toward the check point. "If I stop now, I won't be able to finish tonight."

"Okay, if you're sure about it."

"Will you stop being so protective!"

"Me? Protective? Usually it's the other way around. _I'm_ supposed to be the stubborn one, remember?"

"And you refuse to admit you're hurt. As always."

"Look, Joe, I'm saying I'm not hurt because it's the truth, okay? _You_ try rolling down that hill when your skis are still attached!"

During the course of this altercation, they'd reached the check-in point, had been given snowshoes, and had replaced their skis, Frank having double-checked the straps on his.

"C'mon," Joe said finally when they'd checked the straps. "Let's try to get back to the lodge sometime before dark, huh?"

* * *

"You okay, Frank?" Nancy asked, coming up to them a bit awkwardly in snowshoes while they were waiting for their starting signal. 

"Yeah, just a little banged up. You and George still with the pack?"

"Uh-huh," George said, snowshoeing over to them as well. "Hey, watch out for Jemima Lawrents, okay?"

"Why?" Joe asked. "I admit, she's a bit on the weird side, but what's she got to do with this race?"

George eyed him with a serious expression. "We think she may have sabotaged the bindings on Frank's skis. _And_ she didn't know the directions; yet she got to the ski resort in about ten minutes."

Jemima passed them, disappearing into the tree line. Frank had the impression she'd been listening.

"I'm not saying she _is_ the saboteur, but—"

"Everything points to her, at least right now," Joe said.

"Exactly," George replied.

Frank was getting a feeling he usually got when they were on a case that was potentially dangerous. "Look, why don't we stick together from now on?" he suggested. "I mean, we're going to be going together anyway for the snowshoe section; Lorna Johnson said it was only fair because of my skis. "Also, if Jemima has no qualms about sabotaging the skis, what's to say she's not going to do the same to the canoes? She even hinted it to me and Joe earlier."

"But she only said something like 'watch out for branches'," Joe pointed out.

"And Joe, just for the credit, I'm fine now." Frank paused. "I take that back. Remember the bridge? I am _not_ looking forward to seeing what it does to us with snowshoes. The skis were bad enough."

* * *

It was nearly dark when Frank, George, Joe, and Nancy reached the dreaded bridge. A shallow creek rippled beneath it, iced over with a thin layer of the stuff. Surprisingly, the bridge wasn't the problem; that was reserved for the steep banks on either side of the creek. But eventually they made it to the other side of the creek bed with only their prides affected. 

As the foursome continued on toward Moorland, their headlamps lighting up the trail, other competitors passed them. "Frank, what time is it?" Joe asked at one point.

For not the first time Frank was glad his current watch glowed in the dark. "It's 5:15," he said.

"45 more minutes, then," Joe commented. "We figured on getting back by six at the earliest, remember?"

"And I'm just about bushed; are you?" an all too familiar voice said behind them.

"Hello, Jem," Frank said dully. _Hold on—she started the snowshoe portion well before we did. What's she doing back here?_

"Hey, you want to be careful in this area, last year my brother and I saw a cougar about this time of night." She kept pace with them a bit. "See you back at the lodge."

"I don't know why, but I don't like that girl," George muttered beside them. "Just something about her."

"Hey, where's Nancy?" Joe asked suddenly.

The others started. "She was right with us at the bridge," Frank said. "Do you think Jemima has anything to do with it?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," George replied. "I mean, Jem started before we did and only just passed us. Once again, she's the most likely suspect."

"Let's try getting Nancy on the walkie talkies Lorna Johnson gave us," Frank suggested; "and if that doesn't work, we let Lorna know."


	3. Cold Water

Chapter 3

Cold Water

A/N: I got a few comments about Jem Lawrents…she's not ten or eleven; she's about twenty or so. She justlooks rather young for her age (like a few people I know). That said, on with the story! (This is, btw, the last chapter...)

* * *

"I hate the dark," Nancy Drew muttered. A binding had come loose back at the bridge and she had stopped to fix it. She could have sworn she told the others, but they apparently hadn't heard her. _And_ she'd lost the walkie talkie. "I hate the dark," she said again. "I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. Oh, thank you so much!"—her headlamp had just spluttered out in a spectacular show of flashes. "No light, no idea where the others are, no idea how many people are ahead of me." 

She glanced toward an area slightly off the main trail where she though she'd heard a branch snap, and moved faster. There were more snapping branches; she stopped. Whatever was following her stopped, too, but only after moving ahead several paces.

"Nancy, it's us," George's voice called, just as Nancy was about to tear off her snowshoes and run the rest of the way to Moorland.

* * *

"Sorry about that," Nancy said for what had to be the twentieth time. "My binding came loose at the bridge. I tried to tell you guys, but you didn't hear." 

They were at the lodge, packing their racing equipment back into their vehicles. "Nancy, we just didn't know, all right? I mean, Jem Lawrents started ahead of us, but she passed us after the bridge. Plus, like George said, Jem was a likely person to tamper with the bindings on Frank's skis," Joe replied. "We all jumped to conclusions when you weren't behind us."

"Forget it, okay, Nan?" Frank said, wincing—bruises from that afternoon were finally making themselves known—as he stowed Joe's skis in the back of their van; they'd already returned his borrowed skis to Lorna Johnson. "Oh, hey, Lorna said that we needed to meet back in the lodge once we got back. I'm willing to bet that everyone else is back by now. We were the last ones to get to Miller's Point, and we got really behind because of Nancy's incident."

* * *

"Okay, guys, can I have your attention, please?" Lorna Johnson called through her megaphone over the chatter of the crowd of racers in the lodge. "Congratulations on getting back before midnight." A cheer came up from the competitors. "Tomorrow we will meet at the headwaters of Wilson Creek for the canoeing portion at six-thirty in the morning. That's right next to Hill River on Hill River Road. You'll want to turn into the driveway next to Hill River." 

"That's where Jem lives, remember?" George reminded them.

* * *

As it turned out, they had to navigate Wilson Creek two to a canoe. Frank and Joe in one canoe, with Nancy and George in another. They started out together, but this proved to be a mistake about a mile downstream. 

They were going single file down the middle of the creek when Frank noticed the maple branch that was looming before them, and that they were coming to it fast. There was no way they could push it up; it was too large and bulky. And they couldn't duck to avoid it; it was much too low to even consider doing so, as already it was scraping along the bow of the canoe. So the four of them- himself, Joe, and Nancy and George all simultaneously did the most dangerous thing you can do in a canoe that's in early spring floodwaters: They leaned to the left to avoid the branch.

He didn't remember anything after that until his head broke the surface of the frigid water. The barn boots he had worn for this part of the Triathlon slipped right off his feet and quickly sank toward the bottom, at least 10 feet below them, maybe less, maybe more. He didn't know.

He could feel the coldness of the water seeping in through his heavy, waterproof (ha!) jacket that had the phrase "Little Snake Ranch: American Paint Horses" embroidered on its back; Chet and Iola had given him and Joe the jackets before Iola had been killed. It was even seeping in through his Bayport High School hoody he'd worn underneath, and the woollen hat Callie Shaw had knitted him for Christmas was long gone. His good leather mittens, the ones lined with fleece that his Aunt Gertrude had given him, were slipping off as well. The right one made it all the way off, and he jammed it back on, knowing full well how quickly hypothermia could set in. It came right off again anyway, and the other one followed shortly thereafter. He ignored them this time, and concentrated on not being pulled under. Everything from his stomach downward relaxed. Later, he would realise that he couldn't remember what had happened between going overboard and his boots falling off.

Joe threw him a floating cushion that had been in the canoe; they'd been complete and utter fools, not wearing life jackets. Or rather, thinking they wouldn't need them. The cushion splashed into the water in front of him, and the swift current carried it away. Come to think of it, Frank realized that life jackets probably wouldn't have been a match for their heavy winter clothing anyway.

"Get the canoes righted!" George called.

He nodded, and struggled to hold on to his and Joe's canoe's belly with numb fingers. Both of the canoes turned over, like breaching whales, once, twice, three times before he, Joe, and the girls finally gave up.

"Nancy, here!" Joe shouted, his teeth chattering. He pulled down a branch of the cursed maple that had caused their predicament, but the branch broke. He reached again, lurching as high as the water and his waterlogged clothing would let him, and succeeded. Nancy lurched for it in much the same manner as Joe had done, letting the current do most of the work. And Frank saw it between her fingers, slippery wood and all. George managed to make it to a trunk itself.

Somehow, she and George both managed to climb into the safety the many trunks of the maple provided, and he could tell they felt very much like treed raccoons; the water was the dogs and hunters.

Frank had managed to grasp a nearby tree about two or three inches in diameter from what he could feel, and he was at least staying in one place, solid ground tantalizing him from not even three feet away.

But it was Joe he was worried about.

His brother was further downstream now, and had just gone under. For weeks afterwards, Frank would be haunted with the vision of Joe's head going underwater, and a feeling of total helplessness surged through him. "Joe!" he shouted; distantly, he heard Nancy do the same thing.

He wanted desperately to dive in after his brother and pull him back to the surface, but he did not dare let go of the tree, having struggled so to reach it. The water was actually becoming quite comfortable.

Joe's head broke surface. And immediately went back down. He surfaced again, and managed to grasp hold of a tree that was skinnier that the one Frank had hold of. At least he wasn't moving downstream anymore.

Frank could see the bank in front of him; he could even see the yellow-green of wild onions against the mud. Pushing his leg against the current, he could even feel its edge, an almost vertical incline into the water. "Heck with it," he said, feeling the warmness (warmness! uh-oh…) of the water through his many layers. "It's close, I can risk it." There was a large, rotting log in the way that was much wider than the tree he grasped, but he knew he could manage. Suddenly he wondered exactly how long the cow carcass had been jammed, upstream, in those branches.

That was the second time that day he blacked out; later, he couldn't remember how he got past the branch. But he did remember scrambling up the bank in his socks and feeling the weight of the water in his jacket, dragging his arms down, and the water was streaming out of his sleeves. Through his socks the muddy bank was cold, and Lorna Johnson later said that Frank had made a good-sized path there that might be mistaken for a game trail.

Joe's head was sinking below the water again, and neither Frank nor the girls could do anything about it. After Frank had scrambled ashore, he started trying to find a stick or something that Joe could grasp. But the ones he found that might work were either rotten, or were loose but had thick, woody growths around barbed wire, or were still attached and his cold fingers couldn't even begin to break them off, or they were too short. Only after they got back home did he think of using his Little Snake jacket.

"Tell Mom and Dad I love them," Joe started saying as it dawned on them that they probably wouldn't make it out alive. He started doing pull-ups on the tree to keep warm.

"Joe, we're going to make it!" George called from her tree. "We're gonna make it."

"Tell them I love them," he said again as he tried to lift his legs out of the water. Frank could tell that he was quickly losing the strength to do so. "Tell them I love them."

"We're gonna make it," Frank repeated. "We're gonna make it."

Nancy and George both started shrieking. If it weren't for the fact that he could barely feel his fingers, let alone move them, Frank would have plugged his ears. But he hollered, too, because right now it looked as though that was the only chance they had.

He could see the road not a hundred yards from them. A maroon truck came by, screeched to a stop, then went on.

"Help's on the way!" Nancy said.

Keep yelling, Frank said to himself. Aloud, he said (with considerable more enthusiasm than earlier), "We're gonna make it!"

Frank saw the Moorland Ski Resort truck slowing down before the others. "Over here!" he shouted, waving his arms. For the last fifteen or twenty minutes he'd been pacing back and forth, shouting and trying to keep his feet warm. He couldn't even feel his toes anymore, even though he'd been walking on them to make sure they didn't freeze.

Lorna Johnson came running to the edge of the water in the field; Frank was shocked to discover that the other side of the creek was ten yards past the point where it normally was. "Are you all right?" she called.

"We're fine; just get us out of here!" George screeched.

"Get Joe first," Nancy ordered when some of the assistants finally came with the rowboat. "He's been in the water the longest."

They manoeuvred over to Joe's tree. "Give me your hand," one of the assistants directed. "That's it." He handed Joe several thick blankets when the teen was finally in the rowboat, and assisted him in bundling up. Frank was next; he awkwardly swung a leg over the edge of the boat; nearly fell in again but caught himself. Then Nancy and George were in, and they were heading toward the bank.

The ground was cold under Frank's socks, but like all the other times he'd faced distractions that morning, he ignored it and allowed Lorna and the other assistants to help him to the truck. George and Nancy were behind him, and the assistant, whose jacket nametag read "John," was letting Joe lean on him. Actually, he was practically carrying Joe across the field.

Four fire stations had been alerted to the incident, and a fifth had even been on standby while some of the assistants had righted the canoe. Can't wait for Monday, Frank thought sarcastically in the ambulance. Wow, it's warm in here. He was so tired…he could barely keep his eyes open…

But he didn't dare fall asleep now. He'd been willing himself to stay awake ever since the canoe flipped, and so far he'd won. Stay awake. Stay awake…

* * *

They were halfway to the hospital, as far as Frank could tell from the scene the door windows portrayed. The driver turned the siren off, only to turn it on for practically every red light and intersection. 

Frank had always hated hospitals, but since he'd nearly always been unconscious during the drive in, he'd never been able to appreciate the smell and the insides of the ambulances as much as he'd wanted to. Which was never, if he could help it. Looking back later that evening, and even months later, he cringed just thinking about the episode at the hospital. In fact, he was dead sure that his facial expressions warranted the video camera every time he thought about that afternoon.

* * *

He and Nancy and George were fine; they left shortly after being admitted to the hospital. Joe had had to stay the afternoon, much to his displeasure. But in the end, they all arrived home safely, and Frank vowed never to venture into creeks again, even when they weren't flooded. Once had been enough.

* * *

"I wonder why we got the brunt of the bad luck," Nancy mused a few days later in the Hardys' living room. They, of course, hadn't won the competition, and Lorna had apologised profusely to them for the bad luck they'd had, awarding them with free weekend passes to the resort for the next season. "Jem Lawrents seemed to be in the thick of things, didn't she?" 

"She did," Joe agreed, "but somehow I think that was just bad timing on her part. We looked at Frank's skis when we got home, and it looks like they were just at the point of falling apart."

"They were old anyway," Frank pointed out. "Not that I minded the potential of a mystery, because we'd been on vacation from them for quite a while."

"Same here," Nancy said.

"Hey, it says in here," George said suddenly as she was reading the _Bayport Gazette_, "that they're looking for people who are willing to participate in a real adventure. They're advertising a white-water rafting race down the Colorado River."

"George?" Frank said.

"Yeah?"

"Forget it! You're never making me get into _anything_ resembling a boat again!"

* * *

Finite. 


End file.
